Fading Hope
by witch-annie
Summary: Voldemort has become even more powerful, the Order is in tatters and Harry is in jail, defeated. Slowly fading, he thinks his life is over, and that he has nothing left to live for. Slash
1. Part One

Where had I gone wrong? Which of my choices had been wrong? Why did I do what I did?

These questions torture me every second, of every hour, of every day. It is these questions that keep me alive, that keep me from simply slipping into the vast, black nothingness of insanity. They torture me, day and night, but at the same time keep me from becoming an empty, pitiful shell, carcass, of a human being, like those the others have long become.

I say I am not like them, but in reality, I am little different. I eat, and sleep and move as infrequently as they do. Hell, I can hardly be called alive. So weak, I can hardly stand, with white hands that have barely the strength to hold a spoon. My eyes have long become used to the darkness – so used, in fact, that I think I they won't be able to bear the sunlight. Of course, the delusion that I will ever see sunlight is a ridiculous one. A mere hope, a straw, I cling on to, like the dying man that I am.

I am fading. No, I am sure they'll keep me alive – _he_ will make sure of that – even if they have to force-feed me and make me drink Sleeping Potions. I am fading, my identity, my hopes and dreams and memories and everything I had been before... this. Sometimes, I try to remember the faces of my dead friends, but I can not. I try to recall something, anything, of the knowledge I gained at Hogwarts, and yet all I can remember is a handful of spells. Everything is slipping from my mind, like sand between fingers, and I can only sit there and watch it happen. I used to cry about it, before, but I can't anymore.

There is just the bleak, somewhat faded ache within my heart, an ache that is my only solace and light because it means I can still feel. It is my only company, my only companion, the last lingering sign of my fading humanity. Yet I know that soon, inevitably, even that will go and there will only be numbness. Merlin, how I dread and look forward to that moment...

* * *

I never wanted it to happen. I might have been a selfish, evil brat, but I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted the Ministry to turn into a band of puppets controlled by Voldemort. I never wanted so much pain, death, blood, anguish, despair...

I try to tell myself that it's not my fault. That it is Father who made it all possible. That is was he, and the others, who killed and tortured the right people – and made it possible for Voldemort to become so strong again. Indeed, I fear even Hogwarts is no longer pure. This evil is permeating everything, and when I visit the school, I half-expect to see malice and hatred in the eyes of the little children.

Voldemort has a way of getting into your heart and soul. I watch as those who were the closest of friends kill each other. I watch as families are broken apart, as those on one side plot against the ones on the other. Heck, who can be sure who is on whose side now? His spies are everywhere, listening, eavesdropping, collecting information, torturing, scheming. It could be anyone, from a five-year-old child to a dying old woman. No-one can be sure anymore – of anything.

I am fading. I am no longer the person I'd been once – no longer ambitious, proud, vain, haughty. Somehow, this evil had striped me of everything. My family. Friends. Hopes. Myself, even.

I live in a limbo. I work and eat and sleep and kneel before him, and yet I know that I am nothing. A robot. A shell of a human being. Yet somewhere deep inside me, my old self slumbers. I hope.

I guess it's the only way for me to remain untouched – both by Voldemort's promises and by the horrors I witness everyday. I say I 'witness', but in reality I've performed quite a few. I had to, don't mistake me, I never took pleasure and I prayed for those I've killed. How naïve... As if anything can cleanse me of what I've done...

If there is anything that pains me most, it's seeing the fallen hero. I visit him sometimes, in that hellish place that is probably worse than hell itself. He doesn't see me, not under my Cloak. He's so weak now, thin, pale, and yet still so beautiful. But his eyes are no longer shining emeralds - they're pale, like all of him.

I tell Voldemort I only visit to gloat. How lucky I am that my godfather made sure I became an accomplished Occlumens, because if Voldemort ever finds out about my true feelings - well, let's say I don't want to imagine the consequences.

Harry Potter is completely defeated. Broken, mutilated, his soul in tatters. I'm surprised that he's still sane, after Voldemort made him watch his friends die. Hermione Granger, tortured to death. Ronald Weasley. Arthur and Molly Weasley. Remus Lupin. Neville Longbottom. Ginny Weasley. All of them died before Harry's eyes. And scores of others dies by the wands of the Deatheaters.

He sits there and does not move. The Boy-Who-Lived. A twenty-year-old man who has endured more than some of the wizarding world's most renown heroes – put together.

And now this... God, how it hurts to see him like this. How blind I'd been, blinded by my pride and vanity and naïve delusions of greatness; I did not see what an angel he was - still is. My beautiful angel on a bloody rack, an angel with broken wings.

I cry, sometimes, silent tears streaming down my face. I tell myself it is the Dementors' influence, but I know that they have nothing to do with it. I love him. Simply so. Horribly so. I am close enough to reach out and touch him, and yet we are worlds apart. He, a prisoner toyed with and tossed aside like a torn glove. Me, Voldemort's most gifted protege.

We always were too different to be friends.

Too proud to be friends.

Too blind to be lovers.

* * *

Once, I thought I saw him. Platinum hair, grown longer now, fine, aristocratic features, eyes of molten silver.

Hallucinating again, probably. Wouldn't be the first time... And yet I find myself stronger than in months, suddenly wishing that he was here. That glimpse – or had it been a dream? - was the first familiar face I'd seen - remembered? - in weeks. Or had it been years? I can't remember...

Where is he now? Is he alive? What is he doing?

Having nothing else to do, I hungrily try to recall everything I can about him. His laughter, his pale hair and grey eyes, the manner in which he moved and spoke, his gestures, the scent of bitter herbs he always seemed to have about him. I go so far that maybe these aren't memories anymore – it's quite possible that I'm just fantasizing, that I'm making all these details up. However, I do not care.

Days later, I am more alert, and I hear his footsteps. Invisible, probably under a Cloak. Why is he here? What does he want? Does he come to gloat, to look at his master's handiwork? I cannot imagine him not being a Deatheater, although the little naïve child in me longs for him not o be one. Maybe he turned to the 'good side.' Maybe he is working with those few of us left. Maybe... Yes, of course, for how much longer am I going to delude myself?

I feel his presence. He just sits there, does not move, does not speak.

And then a thought slips into my mind – a rather ridiculous one. I can't be sure whether it my own tortured mind, or the influence of the prison, or simply knowing that another human being is here with me, but I suddenly think – no, know – that I love him.

Why, you may ask? Why do I love, if I indeed do, an enemy? I do not know why. I do not want to know why. But I long to see his face once more, really see, not imagine it, to hear his voice, to feel his hair under my fingers...

I sleep that night, for the first time in what seems like a very long while.

* * *

I ask Voldemort whether he has any plans for Harry. He says that he might need to use him as bait – to lure out those of the Order who are yet alive. How few they are...

I do not reply and simply walk away, but he is a sharp being, and senses my distress.

'Is something wrong?' he asks, in a voice that has as much warmth and caring as an icicle.

I lie that no, nothing is wrong, that I am merely tired. He orders me to go and rest, but I cannot sleep that night.

I am haunted by Harry. Haunted by his pain, and despair and, oh... guilt. I had nothing to do with his being put in that godforsaken prison, but I cannot but feel help the most sharp, overwhelming guilt. If I had done something, if I had stopped Father from going and capturing Harry in his London flat, then maybe all would have been different. Maybe Voldemort would not have been at large now. Maybe, possibly, I would have been dead. But I had done nothing, I had been too afraid, and now Father is dead (not that I am much upset about that), I am a Deatheater with a conscience and Harry is fading away.

If I could go back, would I change it all? Yes, a million times yes!

Would Harry have been mine now, if all had gone differently? No.

We always were too different to be friends.

Too proud to be friends.

Too blind to be lovers.

But he would have been free, and fighting, no doubt. And that would have been enough for me.

* * *

He comes every three days, I know that now. Once, the Cloak slipped off and I glimpsed his face. So beautiful; he always was. But cold. Like a statue of ice, perfect, yet emotionless and not alive.

But I did not see evil in this eyes. No, he was not lost. There was no malice, no hatred, no evil about him. He was a tired, worm out man.

Weeks after that, he comes again, without the Cloak. He makes the Dementors go away, says he is upon Voldemort's orders. That he has to retrieve some information from me.

We are alone now. He, an angel of beauty, a Deatheater – God, what an oxymoron... Me, the shards of the man I'd been. There's no hatred amongst us now, no wall of bitter words and hurled insults. Just the dry silence and a foot of almost solid darkness.

* * *

He looks even worse from up close. Horribly pale, almost colourless face, limp hair and thin limbs. The clothes he wears are worn, but whole and clean.

I turn away, not really knowing what to say or do.

'Why are you here?' is voice is hoarse after being unused for so long.

'I don't know,' I answer lamely.

'Is he going to kill me?' there is no emotion in that question.

'Yes.' I see no point in lying.

'Kill me. Now, please, don't let him have me,' he pleads in that still strangely empty, emotionless voice. Raises his eyes. Huge, empty eyes.

'I won't,' I say.

'Why?

Why, you want to know? Because the only thing I have left is hope. Hope that maybe I will have the courage to break free, to defy Voldemort, to laugh in his face and save you, whisk you away, heal you... Hope that maybe there is the faint chance that you will come to love me, need me.

Simply hope.


	2. Part Two

He does not answer. Why? I'm so tired... My eyes are heavy, and when at other times I yearned for his presence, now I couldn't care less. I just want to sleep... To slip into that black void, to never come back. Sleep...

His eyes are closing, and I know what that means. You see, Dementors have that effect on people. If one spends too much time in their presence – and he's been here for three years – they will fade; emotionally, mentally. It is much like the Dementor's Kiss, but takes much longer, of course.

My eyes fill with angry tears, and somehow I don't care about being discovered anymore. I lash out, and start hitting his face, again and again, leaving angry red marks on his pale skin. Panic. No, he can't go, not now! He can't just leave me here, with my guilt and despair and loneliness and... love.

He opens his eyes, looks at me blearily. Emptily.

'Let me sleep,' he mumbles, in a voice that is like the rustling of dry autumn leaves. I have to lean closer to hear him.

'No,' I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, hard. 'Don't you dare sleep! Can you hear me!'

He nods.

'Whatever you do, don't sleep! Hold out another night, okay? Harry? Harry?'

'Go,' he whispers weakly, and somehow, inexplicably, he knows.

An hour later, I am before Voldemort. He is writing something, apparently very preoccupied. The fire cackles in the fireplace, and it's warm. As always, I put up every mental barrier I can think of – I can't let him know. However, I can already feel a chilling presence in my mind – and I let it in, for fighting it would be suspicious. I hope my defences will hold.

'What is it?' he asks, continuing to write.

'Master,' I almost choke on the word, 'I wanted to inform you that if you do not remove Potter from Azkaban soon, he'll be of no use. The Dementors, they -'

Gambling is what it's called. He might see my point. Or he might suspect something.

'I am quite aware of the effect Dementors have on human beings Mr. Malfoy,' the icy fingers are still in my head, searching, prying, 'and I am in correspondence with the Azkaban overseer. As for Potter, I do not need him in perfect psychological health. As long as he's alive, he'll do.'

'I am sure you know that the Malfoy Manor has excellent dungeons, so if -' I am gambling again, but whatever Voldemort is busy with, it is serious, because he is obviously too preoccupied to pay attention to the highly lame things I am saying.

He does look up however, and my heart misses a beat.

'Very well, if you are so intent on it, take him to your Manor. Just keep him alive.'

I force myself not to feel anything. Having bowed, I Disapparate.

I struggle to stay awake, to stay concious, but the lure of nothingness is so strong that it is proving to be terribly difficult. It's calling to me, that blessed place where there is no prison or darkness, where there is nothing at all.

I ride on the waves of slumber, sometimes falling into unconsciousness, sometimes perfectly awake. All that keeps me here, in this clammy, godforsaken cell is the knowledge that he somewhere out there, thinking of me. Somehow, inexplicably, that knowledge gives me energy, energy that I have so little of right now.

Thankfully, I feel his presence again, and do not remember him coming in – or maybe I was unconscious when he entered. Warm fingers on my face; to me, theirs is the touch of an angel.

'Harry?' he says, voice quiet.

Why is so misty here? I can't make his face out, no matter how hard I try.

Desperately, I want to tell him how glad I am that he returned, to ask him so many questions, to tell him that I – I – I... But my voice fails me, and I see and hear nothing.

It is dark when we enter the Mansion. Rather, I enter, carrying his limp form. His breathing is level, as if he slumbers most peacefully, but the poor boy is still deathly pale and looks fit to be put into a coffin. He clings to my neck and whimpers as I lower him onto the bed, shaking violently.

Eyeing the pasty face, the dark circles under his eyes I suppress an overwhelming desire to call a Healer. Granted, I am not worried about his physical state (which is bad) as much as about his mental (which is probably worse).

Two blankets and a started fire later, he seems warmer, and his face looks pinker, healthier. He is still in a semi-comatose state, but he isn't shaking as much anymore, which is an improvement.

I spend the night sitting by the bed.

When I open my eyes, I cannot but think that I'm still dreaming. Can you blame me? Last thing I remember is a cold stone floor and now I'm in a deliciously warm bed, in a room with luxurious mahogany floors and thick, plush carpets.

There is a fire dancing in the fireplace, and... Malfoy – Draco – is asleep on the bed, curled up on the blankets, as far away from me as it is possible. At least, I think he is asleep – and apparently I'm wrong, because the next moment he sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes a little bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept for a long while.

'How do you feel?' he asks, voice almost humanly warm. I am well enough to be surprised – I never thought Malfoy – Draco – could be... concerned. He never was anything but a self-centered, cruel snake. Years ago, it seems... So long ago... Maybe time really does change people.

'Shitty,' I reply, assessing the aching head and ribs, and the general weakness.

He crawls nearer, face almost translucent in the fire-light. Places a cool hand on my forehead.

'At least your fever's broke. You were burning for over thirty hours.'

'Where am I?'

'Malfoy Manor. You're safe here,' he smiles a little, seeing my startled face, 'at least till we figure out what to do about all this.'

'And your parents...?'

'Dead,' the answer comes sharply, the rawness of the pain evident in his voice. He looks away. I do not press the matter. 'Are you hungry?'

'No. Can I get up?'

'Of course.'

He helps me up, and only then do I see that I am wearing a clean white T-shirt and a pair of linen trousers. His, probably.

We sit before the fire, tall cups of grog steaming in our hands. The drink is sweet and thick and delicious, and the alcohol makes me giddy. I still feel somewhat... surreal. Like this isn't really happening, like I'm dreaming. Wishing.

I sit at his feet, his right hand on my shoulder. We look into the fire in silence, each transfixed by it's hypnotic dance. Times seems to stop. The warring world outside isn't real anymore, and only this is – or is it only me wanting it to be? Whatever it is, the snow and cold and violence of the war-torn Britain is far-away, like a distant memory I cannot and do not want to recall. Only this is real - the warmth, fire, this room. Him.

I turn and our eyes meet, electricity passing between us. And I understand, in that instant, understand everything. Perhaps the years in Azkaban have made me more acute, perhaps it's just meant to be, but I see him, as if naked, before me. Pain. He bears so many emotional scars. The murder of his parents. The murders he himself has committed. And he's guilty, oh, so guilty, and it's eating him from inside, like some acid, and it hurts so much. Confusion. He feel something towards me – I don't know if 'love' is the right word – and cannot understand why. Fear. For himself, for me, for everyone else out there.

He tried to smile, but it is a smile that is so full of sadness and despair that it almost breaks my heart. I place my hand on his, trying, wordlessly, to offer to comfort. For some reason, there is no more enmity. Too much stands between us now and us in Hogwarts, between the war and the petty feuds. We are alike, and he understand it, more alike that we've ever been. Alike, and yet, paradoxically, completely different. Like two sides of a coin.

It's almost as if he can read my mind. See me, my thoughts and emotions and memories. To me, he is still a mystery. We are so much alike, I cannot help thinking, both broken, both alone, both teetering on the edge on a knife. If Voldemort finds either of it, we know we'd be killed. Maybe I would be before him, but whatever. And all that holds us there, on that edge, is each other.

He places his head on my knees. Closes his eyes. My hands start to fiddle with his hair, almost like he is a child. Silent tears start streaming down his face, tears that were suppressed for so long. For his parents, his godfather, his friends.

We fall asleep hours later, before the dead fire, holding each other. Shards, pieces of once completely different people.

Held together by hope.


End file.
